Pitchfork Day 2: Sleigh Bells, Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Wild Flag

Pitchfork Day 2 is in the books for Saturday in Union Park. Here’s the rundown from yours truly (GK) and my hard-working colleague Bob Gendron (BG):

1:09 p.m.: The pleasant chirping of crickets provides the transition between songs for the Psychic Paramount, which brings the heavy as a serious wake-up call. The instrumental New York power trio is, along with the Atlas Moth, the closest thing to metal fans will hear this year, as organizers again shortchange the genre. Yet, unlike most metal acts, the group ignores any interaction with the crowd and looks rather staid, the members often staring at their feet or armada of effects pedals. But there's no denying the enormous, and enormously loud, supersonic waves emanating from the bass, guitar and drums.

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Jeff Conaway

's percussive kit consists only of four drums, three cymbals and an attached tambourine, but he mans it as if it's twice that size. If the reunited Black Sabbath still need a replacement for Bill Ward, this guy deserves an audition. His mates also worship at the altar of early ‘70s rock, their heft forward-paced and seldom stationary. Dive-bombing feedback squeals, Mesa Boogie amplifiers and fuzzed-out riffs that mimic an overtaxed chainsaw round out the drive and drone. These dudes have to travel from gig to gig in a shag-carpeted van, right? (BG)

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1:35 p.m.: Shame that we’ve got the Atlas Moth and the Psychic Paramount playing opposite each other. Fans who like their music on the “extreme” setting would enjoy both bands. For Chicago doom-metal quintet Atlas Moth, three guitars just aren’t enough. They add a two-piece brass section, including Yakuza saxophone monster Bruce Lemont, and the wall of sound is imposing. For the closer, the guitars drop out altogether, and just trumpet and drums accompany some serious vocal drone by the remaining musicians – sort of like Tuvan throat singing for headbangers. (GK)

2:07 p.m.: People are more excited about the pouring rain than

Lotus

Plaza, which continues to perform as if it could be anywhere. The side project of

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Deerhunter

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guitarist Lockett Pundt seems detached, not only from the audience, but from risking any expression or movement. Stagehands scrambling to move monitors out of the rain prove more entertaining. One reason is because there's faint distinction between any of the songs. Pundt, a wire-thin individual that wouldn't be out of place in a 1980s John Hughes film, immerses his nasal voice in reverb. He could be singing "I hate you all" and no one would be able to understand or know any better. Layers of synthesizers wrap the watery narratives, resulting in spacey, gauzy guitar-pop that craves ambience but doesn't know how to get there. (BG)

2:10 p.m.: Cleveland’s Cloud Nothings are building some serious, churning momentum – we even have our first mosh pit sighting of the weekend, for better or worse – but the rain rolls in and things get dicey. Guitarist

Dylan

Baldi hunches over his foot pedals on the slick stage and conjures feedback. I don’t know a lot about electronics, but this appears extremely dangerous, even life-threatening. The band gamely plows on as the rain intensifies. Finally the power to the public-address system cuts off. Still the band keeps flailing its instruments – only audible, if it all, to the fans still crammed closest to the stage. Those diehards are loving it and so are the band members, but soon common sense overrules zeal and the set ends in silence, save for the boisterous cheers of the appreciative crowd. (GK)

2:48 p.m.: Playing under the moniker Atlas Sound, Deerhunter singer Bradford Cox visually mirrors Bob Dylan in the latter's Rolling Thunder period, circa 1975. He wears white face paint, a straw hat and a harmonica rack, and strums an acoustic guitar. If only the music was a fraction as interesting as the Bard's output. Few things are worse at a live festival than witnessing a set bordering on an improvisational session in a bedroom captured on a 4-track recorder. Cox's folksy garble leans on loops and samples, but they seldom build into anything that resembles an actual song. These are fragments, fits and starts, with even rambling tunes such as "Walkabout" drifting and burbling. The lullaby tempos and delicate tones are equally painstaking. A blown opportunity in front of a giant crowd. (BG)

3:13 p.m.: Atlas Sound finishes stronger than he began, even if the new-age symphonica cries out to be experienced while taking a bubble bath. Then, all goes quiet. "The rain killed my [stuff]," says Cox. Perhaps Mother Nature sent a message? (BG)

3:15 p.m.: The rain returns with a vengeance, pounding down during Liturgy’s set. Two guitars build hypnotic funnel clouds of tones and overtones atop electronic beats that rev higher and faster, until they suggest 1,000 lawnmowers roaring at once. Imagine an army of kick drums blurring together in superhuman, rapid-fire unison. Better yet is the look on the face of the burly, black-clad security guard stationed at the mixing board. He’s smiling, flashing devil’s horns and headbanging through the entire set. Rain? What rain? Metal reigns. (GK)

3:48 p.m.: When in doubt, hum a la-dee-da-da melody. That's the advice

Cults

vocalist Madeline Follin follows during several of her band's songs, rich in girl-group vibes and churchy organs. In addition to Follin's girly timbre, the New York band benefits from good timing. Bright sun emerges seconds before the group begins playing, a welcome sight to the soaked crowd. Plus, the preceding set by Atlas Sound offered no competition. If you can get past Follin's teenage-like range, Cults don't disappoint. Adorned in a black dress and visible from a long distance due to vibrant red lipstick, the barefooted Follin alternates between sultry and sweet, and reaches back for R&B strains that give fare such as "You Know What I Mean" and "Never Heal Myself" an edge they lack on album. Never mind that she can't always hit the highs. Her hips sway and legs shimmy to a surfeit of finger-snapping beats. Call-and-response vocal parts, howling guitars and towering crescendos function as exclamation marks. Cults' secret weapon? A xylophone, which lays the foundation for "Go Outside," the nearest this year's fest has come to a communal anthem given that

Feist

didn’t perform "1234" during her Friday headlining set. (BG)

4:05 p.m.: Even on the smaller B stage at the park’s south end, Youth Lagoon’s Trevor Powers looks and sounds a little lost behind his keyboards. His set has a boyish, whistling-in-the-dark quality, tentative and wobbly. His “The Year of Hibernation” album is coated in shimmering reverb and performed in whispers, so this big, outdoor setting isn’t the ideal venue to showcase his work. Such are the pitfalls of booking up-and-coming artists who haven’t yet played in front of more than a few dozen people at a time in tiny clubs. (GK)

4:40 p.m.: The sun is finally back in full blaze, but Flying Lotus electronic composer Steven Ellison takes his time building mood and momentum. Behind his laptop, he swings between abstract soundscapes and snippets of more familiar material – “Watch the Throne” Jay-Z and

Kanye West

,

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Erykah Badu

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,

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Lil Wayne,

Odd Future

. As the set progresses, the rhythms start to gain deeper traction, moving from head-bobbing to sternum-rattling. A brief dose of Beastie Boys goes over as you would expect – the crowd ecstatic to pay tribute to the late, great Adam Yauch. (GK)

5:15 p.m.: Wild Flag kicks down the door with a cover of Television’s CBGB’s-era classic “See No Evil,” then slams out a new song. Carrie Brownstein snarls, “I don’t see any way around this/So let’s go through it.” She leads the charge in a set that balances jousting guitars with Janet Weiss’ typically titanic drumming, including a 10-minute feedback-soaked journey through “Racehorse.” But the MVP is do-everything Rebecca Cole. Besides playing electric piano, Cole holds down the bottom end with her keyboard bass lines. She joins Weiss for terrific girl-group harmonies that give the Flag its pop appeal. And she looks like one of the band’s fans, dancing and bouncing, mouthing the words when she’s not singing, trading smiles with her bandmates and cheering them on. Every great band needs a Rebecca Cole. (GK)

5:24 p.m.: Gospel choirs aren't the norm at Pitchfork. And granted, the one

Nicolas Jaar

features is artificial, via samples, but the spirituality makes for a nice change of scenery. Ditto the saxophone and fat, Western-style Telecaster guitar lines, resurrecting visions of ‘50s great James Burton. As Jaar dabbles with his computer and speaks words in a low-key voice, the widescreen soundscapes yield an understated techno rooted in minimalism, lushness and meditation. The presentation wants for pizzazz, yet it congeals because Jaar understands how to build debris into new constructions. Sure, hearing more free-jazz skronk or dance textures would be welcome. Then again, Jaar adheres to a less-is-more architecture, flirting with trance as it seeps into the subconscious. The New Yorker redeems what must stand as a new record for soundchecks; the 25-minute late start ensures no subsequent artist on the Blue Stage will start as scheduled. (BG)

6:03 p.m.: Soon after the double dose of rain, 30 Pitchfork crew members are fast at work getting the Union Park grounds back in shape. They’ve already got 25,000 square feet of temporary roadway in place, and are now importing four tons of wood mulch and clay compound to improve the footing in heavily trafficked areas. Three sump pumps work overtime on nearby Washington Street. Later, a waste management crew will be pumping out standing water to open sewer drains. The rain is gone, but the work to restore the park is just beginning. (GK)

6:12 p.m.: Schoolboy Q is all about the bounce. Onstage, he scurries around and waves his left arm as if directing traffic at a downtown intersection. The West Coast MC encourages the crowd to mirror his hydraulic jumps and fizzy enthusiasm, and primarily, gets his wish. Yet the rapper overestimates fans' familiarity with his work. He leaves gaps in the narratives and expects chants to fill in the holes but, outside of "Bet I Got Some Weed" and "Hands on the Wheel," his jams aren't secondhand knowledge. Of course, hip-hop demands confidence, and it's better to over- than under-sell skills. He approaches "Sexting" as an aural strip tease and never runs short of come-ons or participatory chants. (BG)

6:40 p.m.: Alexis Krauss whips her hair, crawls on her knees and thrashes her neck. She's a firecracker, a blur of tattoos, sweat and bangles. The

Sleigh Bells

front woman relishes energy and throws her all into every song the group sings. She goes from a whisper to a bloody shriek in less time than it takes a sports car to accelerate from 0 to 60. Two years removed from a breakout set on the festival's smaller stage, Sleigh Bells prove up to the challenge of commanding the largest platform. Having added a second guitarist to the fold, as well as dry-ice fog and several stacks of Marshall amplifiers, the Brooklyn collective is worthy of headliner status. Its sound is bigger, bolder and, in certain aspects, glossier. Yet Krauss' aerobics workouts and extroverted demeanor ensure punk urgency remains. Derek Miller feeds his guitar through an imaginary industrial-capacity document shredder. One anticipates Sleigh Bells could break into

Anthrax

's "Caught in a Mosh" at any moment and not blink. And, as "Rill Rill" demonstrates, the band isn't solely married to adrenaline rushes. Sleigh Bells play games with spacing and silences, magnifying the size of what comes through the speakers. Arcade-game blasts ("Tell 'Em") and swarming refrains ("A/B Machines") aim for arenas. Krauss? She loves the avid response, surfs atop the crowd and urges everyone to scream in unison with her. Iron Maiden would be proud. (BG)

7:20 p.m.: Chromatics play a set delayed by technical issues, but the co-ed quartet makes the most of its time on stage. Melodic, single-note guitar lines thread through the electro beats, evoking New Order. Wispy vocals are further distorted to sound even smaller and more vulnerable, creating a bittersweet dancing-through-tears vibe on “These Streets Will Never Look the Same.” A cover of

Kate Bush

’s “Running Up That Hill” caps an all-too-brief but enchanting performance. (GK)

7:55 p.m.: U.K. quartet

Hot Chip

balloons to a seven-piece ensemble for its big prime-time moment. This is the point in our programming when the big neon ball in the sky is supposed to descend and bathe tens of thousands in

disco

glitter, as

Cut Copy

did when assigned a similar task at last year’s festival. But Hot Chip never quite ratchets up its set beyond lukewarm. Yes, the crowd is celebrating to the likes of “Hold On” and “Over and Over,” but never losing its collective mind. Compared to the mania that accompanies Sleigh Bells an hour earlier, this is pretty tame stuff. Part of the problem might be the tepid sound, and – despite Alexis Taylor’s high-pitched vocals -- the group’s overall lack of charisma. (GK)

8:07 p.m.: Imported from Detroit: Danny Brown holds his white pants up by grabbing them at the crotch area. His nappy hair emerges underneath the left side of his hat. He sticks his tongue out, akin to

Michael Jordan

in the midst of a slam dunk, and holds up the devil horns symbol with his fingers. Yep, the rapper is the most vibrant and super-sized character at the festival. Often, he borders on comic, a caricature obsessed with easy sex, limitless drugs and tall tales. He brags of chasing

Adderall

with alcohol, being a magnet for certain types of women, popping pills and wanting to die like a rock star. It's impossible--or at least, unadvisable--to take his lyrics at face value. Instead, his slanted flow and eclectic mixes clear the way, and just when you think you finally know what lies around the corner, out comes a disco-laden sample of Blondie's "Rapture." (BG)

9:14 p.m.: The smell of sulfur wafts through the air. Grimes' pair of bikini-clad female dancers activate smoke bombs, contributing to a performance that, for better and worse, enjoys the feel of a low-budget storefront-theater experiment. The composer/vocalist thrives on her reputation as an eclectic personality, and the choreographed routine and cheap-thrill effects appear to stem from a former art-school student. Still, the visuals, and the Vancouver singer's intermittent shouts, whoops and barks, add nothing to electronically processed music extremely dependent on airy loops and breathy wordless expressions. "Oblivion" briefly entertains and reveals Grimes' knack for impish pop. Most everything else clings to repetition, cuteness and whimsy. (BG)

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9:57 p.m.: Godspeed You! Black Emperor bookends its set with two epic 20-minute tracks. The Montreal septet loves the steady climb. They start in near-silence, add layers of static and build slowly, almost imperceptibly until drums are at locomotive speed and guitars and violin create a matrix of interlocking lines. The band doesn’t allow any live video, the better to focus attention on the stage, where the seven members are silhouetted against a video screen, which flashes blurry shadows and the occasional discernible image. In the same way, the music takes its time revealing exactly what it is, the shape of the composition coming into crisp focus only after the musicians have massaged their parts for several minutes. Patience is key. Fans looking for sudden changes in tempo and dynamics and quick payoffs are in for a taxing evening. But those willing to listen and wait are amply rewarded. (GK)

greg@gregkot.com

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